Spectacle Devotion
by Elisticia
Summary: Life is pretty simple for wealthy ladies in the nineteenth century, right? The afterlife...not so much. OCxWilliam. Rated T for mild bad language/violence/suggestive themes, but may change later. Please review, feedback really helps. :)
1. Chapter 1

I had only just turned twenty when it happened.

Of course, I remember it perfectly, as I have every day since, even when I don't want to. Memories, however are always present, always reminding, always telling. They say the eye's are the windows to the soul. They know absolutely squat.

I had been en route to a soirée that night. My betrothed had finally proposed to me, and we were celebrating before the wedding. I had little affection for him, but he was kind to me, and he was an English nobleman. I sometimes think I could have lived a happy life with him. Then again, it wasn't to be so, and I was more than perfectly content with that.

I was in a carriage, on my way to the manor—not his, a friend's, I believe—in which the evening's event was being held. It wasn't a very long trip, but it was long enough for me to spend stretches of quiet road with only my driver and my thoughts. I've always disliked people, and being around them, especially at large social gatherings. My father was of the English gentry class, however, and my mother of the French, so I had throughout my life been forced into many uncomfortable evening dresses and to act as though I cared about the trivial events in the superficial lives of the nation's wealthy.

That trip I was watching the silhouetted trees, engrossed in thoughts of dread for the coming party, when the carriage violently jerked to the side, rolled, and wound up in a ditch on the side of the seemingly unoccupied road. I had been non-severely injured, but my coachman—whose name I never learned, despite his years of service to my family—had been thrown from the carriage, and died in the fall.

I didn't move for several moments after the carriage stood still, shocked by the suddenness of the accident, and by the throbbing of the right side of my head where it had hit the wall.

"Well that was bloody brilliant. She's of no use to us if she's dead." a man's voice appeared from nowhere, breaking the evening's serenity. I was terrified at the thought of what use anyone would have for me. My terror built as the people outside proceeded to pull the carriage upright and back onto the road.

His voice. Suddenly, the nightmares that had been plaguing me for months returned. Foreboding images flashed before me. Images of death, death personified. So much death. The mortality of humanity…the futility of life...of all our lives…the loneliness of time...and eyes. Large, monstrous eyes. Green eyes, following me…watching me…ever present...always watching…

My body moved against my will as a man dragged me from the broken husk of a carriage and deposited me on the ground. There were two men, both imposingly tall, both in black suits, both wearing spectacles. The only noticeable differences between the two were in hair colour—one had blonde hair, the other light brown, both cut short—and in what I had though that night to be weapon choice: one had attached to his belt a saw of sorts, and the other, the blonde, held a pitchfork.

"Did you collect the man?" the man who had previously spoken, the light-haired one, inquired sharply of the brunette. Collect? My heart, already racing after the crash, began pounding. I knew these men were trouble, and that I needed to run, but I felt faint, and too frightened to move.

"I did." They both loomed over me, just barely visible in the dying light.

"Good. The sooner we finish here the sooner we can go home. It's been a long week, and I've finally been given a weekend off." I felt a warm tear roll down my cheek. _I'm going to die. No. That isn't not how the world works. They're going to sell me to an underworld merchant to be turned into a sex slave and a servant. They killed my driver and are going to ensure my own painful demise. They are going to kill me so they could return to their weekends. Just like that, my life is going to be over, stomped out by two devils looking to make me into a quick profit. My life is over. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die._

"Hey, are you alright?"

Alright? That surprised me enough to regain some semblance of an ability to speak. "Wha-what do you want? Please, my family has money! I can pay you, just don't hurt me! Don't hurt me, leave me alone! Please!" I cried pitifully, shielding my face with an arm, knowing how feeble my efforts were.

To my amazement, they looked surprised. The brunette kneeled down next to me. "We aren't here to hurt you." I whimpered and flinched away. "You sure we have the right one? She looks extremely...fragile."

The blonde sighed, and nodded. "Of course she would be frightened. She's human. Thoroughly so. She is, however, an extremely special human in that she can be of great use to us." He pulled a folder from his pocket, and showed the brunette it's contents. "She's without a doubt the girl we've been ordered to find. You shouldn't question the judgement of the higher-ups."

"Of course. I wasn't, I was only double-checking." replied the brunette hastily. "In that case, Miss Hathaway, you're coming with us."

I jerked away from the men, dragging my new gown through mud as I attempted to get up and run, but became tangled in its skirt, and wound up frantically crawling for my life. Through my panting and tears I heard a sigh, and looked up to find that the blonde had caught up to me—not that I was moving quickly at all—and was standing over me, wiping his glasses off on his jacket. He put them back on, murmuring "You frightened her with your diction." He looked down at me. "Here I had hoped you would be more cooperative. Will you not even allow us to explain why we're here?"

I thought of my murdered driver, their monstrous strength, their structured movements and precise language, their weapons that they so casually strut about with. I knew very well why they were here. They were monsters wearing human flesh, members of some criminal organization, looking for money and entertainment, amusing themselves by frightening me as much as possible before killing me.

At that moment I realised in my fear I had forgotten about the small pistol my father gave to me a few years ago—given so he would feel more at ease when I traveled alone—that he had ordered me to keep on my person whenever I went anywhere without either him, my brother, or my fiancée. I fumbled through my skirt's now—filthy ruffles for the pocket in which I had this afternoon placed the gun. I pulled it out, and pointed it at the blonde man.

"I-I'm warning you. Back away. Leave me alone!" He didn't even flinch.

I fired it, at his chest; an easy target, only a metre away. The man vanished. I gasped, and turned to find he was standing next to his companion, who was still near the carriage. Impossible.

"You'll find killing us will be rather difficult. How about you listen instead?" Still sitting on the ground, I fingered the pistol, composedly, contemplating my next move. Then, without breaking eye contact with the blonde creature in the shape of a man, I turned it around on myself.

The last things I noticed before pulling the trigger were the man's eyes; calmly watching me, unnaturally phosphorescent, and coloured chartreuse.


	2. Chapter 2

_Welcome back, Miss Hathaway._

I jerked awake. I had fallen asleep in a small dark room—one of the rooms used to train new recruits—slouched on a desk, drooling.

I sat up and stretched, then yawned. I could never seem to get enough sleep. I rubbed my eyes, and realised my spectacles had fallen off. "Crap, crap, crap…" I slid on to the floor, _carefully_ —my vision was pretty horrendous, plus I was in a pencil skirt—and started crawling around, feeling the floor for them.

In the darkness of the room and in my blindness, I didn't even notice that there was a figure silhouetted in the doorway, watching me.

The figure approached me, bent down, and handed me something. My glasses. "You should really be more careful with those." a masculine voice commented.

I picked them from his black-gloved hands with my own gloved one. "Thanks." I muttered, before sitting back down and wiping the smudges from the lenses with a handkerchief, holding them up to the doorway to see by the small amount of light that came in from the hallway.

"Might I ask what you're doing in here?" He inquired. I couldn't tell who he was in the room's lighting; he was tall, though, and dressed in a black suit—which, of course, described about eighty percent of all male shinigami. I put my spectacles back on.

"What does it look like? I _was_ trying to sleep. The Retrieval Division's got too many incompetent fools—really, how did _five_ of them get suspended at once?—and, because I am one of the few who actually takes this job seriously, Management's got me running almost non-stop cleaning up after them. This'll be my third bloody shift in a row with no more than a couple hours' break in between. To think; some of those bastards have the _nerve_ to complain about a little overtime." I snapped back, angry that there was no way now that I would be able to fall back asleep.

"Well my apologies for bothering you. However, I have need of this room." He then proceeded to rummage through a supply cabinet in the back of the classroom, found and pulled out some matches, and began lighting the candles lining the walls. I wiped the bit of drool on the corner of my mouth off with the sleeve of my jacket, and stretched again. Never being able to sleep in my actual bed was giving me cramps. The man finished with the candles, and in the still-dim, but to my sleep-heavy eyes, painfully bright, light I recognised him instantly.

"Mr Spears!" I jumped up, straightening my jacket and skirt, and futilely attempting to flatten my hair to a presentable smoothness with my hand. "I am so sorry for speaking that way to you—I didn't realise, no, I was out of line no matter who you may be. My greatest apologies for my rudeness."

He uttered what sounded like a "heh," pushed up his glasses, and replied with "I empathise with your situation all too well. It's why I got out of soul retrieval as quickly as I could. It's Josette, right?"

"Yes, sir." I stared at his necktie. I could feel myself blushing. How could I snap at a member of Management like that? I had yet to majorly get onto any of the higher reapers' bad sides, and I didn't want this to be the night it finally happened.

"Aren't you supposed to be collecting someone in a little while?" I glanced at my watch. 6:42. A family's barn is to burn down around suppertime, with a neglected little boy trapped inside, to die of smoke inhalation at 7:13.

"Shit!" I grabbed my death scythe, which had been resting across the tops of the desk I had slept on and an adjacent one. It was a plain scythe, save that it was entirely made out of a shiny silver metal, with thorny silver vines climbing the handle, meeting the handle with a single blooming rose. "Sorry!" I yelled as I sprinted from the room.

* * *

That particular long night of work began an hour earlier than I anticipated.

7:13: Thomas Brown, died of smoke inhalation, nothing particular to note, soul collected with no problems.

8:38: John Adkins, heart failure, collected with no problems.

10:12: Mary Brent, childbirth, the child survived.

10:43: Amanda Fisher, septicemia, no problems.

1:02: John Grey, poison, jealous wife killed both him and his mistress, before later proceeding to commit suicide. Guess who now gets to deal with her? Yay.

3:00: Phillip Garnet, respiratory failure, soul collected without incident.

3:23: Emily Albert, also childbirth. Her child died as well. Cruel.

Four hours later and we arrive at my personal favourite of the night, Jane Hanley: time of death, 7:12. Death by poisoning; she mistook a bottle of rodent poison for vanilla extract while baking. Her death was deemed accidental, not suicide. The cake tasted horrible, even without the poison, just for the record.

My next collection wasn't to be until the afternoon. I slipped in through the window of the nearest run-down pub, which was long deserted, crept upstairs, and found a decently clean bed to finish my nap in. I kicked off my pumps at the bed's foot and fell face-first onto the mattress, falling asleep instantly.

I awoke to the late afternoon sunlight peering in from some unfamiliar white lace curtains. I glanced at my watch. 3:11. Sitting up, I pulled the to-die list from my jacket, and re-studied of the information on the soul to be collected at ten of four. Olivia Causer, born August eighth, 1820, to die April third, 1827, aged six. Cause of death to be failure of respiratory system, due to asthma. Looking at the image of the smiling, curly-haired and bright-eyed little girl, I wondered why this world has to be so cruel as to take those that had yet to really live. Yet any human, really, gets taken young, whether they live until eighteen, eighty, or even eight-hundred. Human lives are so fleeting, starting and ending in an instant in the eyes of eternity. Perhaps that's why I got over my own so quickly.

Incredible speed and stamina as we might have, running is still an incredibly slow method of transportation, so it took me the whole thirty-five minutes until the collection to arrive at the girl's cottage in the English countryside. I found the place easily enough; a woman wailing could be heard from quite a ways off, and a doctor's carriage sat at the edge of the property. There was a tree growing near enough the building for me to it in and observe the events unfolding within an upstairs bedroom. A woman, restrained by another and a man was screaming and sobbing hysterically, while two other men—the father, and the physician?—were standing over the child, whom was breathing shallowly. The doctor appeared to be measuring her pulse. My scythe in hand, I watched the second hand on my watch creep toward 3:50.

Five...

four...

three…

two…

one…

Zero. The doctor whispered something. The mother screamed louder and was dragged out of the room by the others. The doctor pulled the sheet over the small corpse's face and too left the room, escorting the father, whom was also crying. I jumped down from the tree to the window ledge, and climbed inside.

Her cinematic record was pretty typical, but her youth and innocence made it quite boring. I watched indifferently as the memories flew by. Indifference is a way of existence one such as I learns quickly. Emotions really have no role in our jobs, in our lives. We grim reapers serve the sole purpose of moving the universe forward; one day into another, one life into one death, watching, waiting, always fulfilling our duty. It's a very important job, and a job which will always need doing. I plan on doing that job, no questions asked, until the day fire and brimstone rain from the sky—and who knows, perhaps even after.

I stamped "completed" on the girl's records just as the sky began to turn orange. Soon the sun will set, ending another day of my eternal servitude.


	3. Chapter 3

Headquarters was painted violet by the sky when I returned in the evening. It was still bustling with activity, even at five-thirty in the evening; we do run a twenty-four hour operation, after all.

I was going to turn in my report and hightail the bloody hell home before Personnel attempted to coerce me into any more collections.

My feet effortlessly navigated me through the grey, indistinguishable corridors that had at first felt to be a labyrinth. They carried me to the circus better known as General Affairs to return my scythe, as mandated at the end of every shift; unless, of course, permission was given for the extended use of a death scythe. I swear, the best way to find one's way there was by _smell_. There were always guys slacking off during work or hanging out after their shifts to flirt with the department's girls. The whole damn place _oozed_ the scnt of idleness—and of desperation.

I didn't make it far before being stopped by one of the division's top clowns. "Heeeeeey Joseeeetta! I would ask you if it hurt when you fell from heaven, but I don't think either one of us really care for angels. I suppose that's just something else we have in common, huh?"

I turned to find that a certain Carlisle Huxley—a really bright, and even slightly attractive, young man, who was unfortunately as annoying as can be—had appeared behind me. He was leaning against the wall, in a cocky pose that was intended to suggest confidence: he was balanced on one foot, with one hand on his hip, his head resting on the other, with that elbow pressed against the wall, in such a way that if it was to slip, he'd provide a bit of amusement by cleaning the floor with his sly grin

I was _not_ in the mood for this crap. My expression must have shown it, too, because Ronald called from across the room "Careful, Carlisle, I heard she's just getting off from a triple shift. You might not want to push your luck—she looks tense."

"Aww. I'm sorry." He cooed at me. "You know, you should ditch a few assignments every now and then and come hang out with us. Stress is bad for one's health. Tell you what; how about you come to my place tonight. We can have a few drinks...I'll make some food...help you relax…" He inched closer to me with each word, until his face was far too uncomfortably close to mine.

"Carlisle. No." Suppressing the urge to rip his head off, I turned back around and kept walking to the equipment return window.

"C'mon Luv. It'll be fun...you need to start living a little bit." That did it. That bastard had gotten on my last nerve. With all of my suppressed frustrations, I lunged and swung my scythe at his head. He just managed to duck before the scythe was embedded in the wall where his head had been only a moment before. I left it there.

"LIVING?! In the event that you _haven't_ noticed, allow me to make one thing _perfectly_ clear. We are not _living_." He backed slowly away from me, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. "We are grim reapers who exist solely for completing one task—a task I am always putting more than my fair share of effort into because you _bastards_ usually can't be bothered to do anything productive! Also, would you _stop_ flirting with me?! It is _never. Going. To. Happen."_ I ripped my death scythe from the drywall and slammed it down onto the counter, then stormed from the room, leaving everyone present staring after me.

I _almost_ managed to clock out without Management calling me in to reprimand me for the hole I carved into General Affairs' wall. Almost; not quite.

A stern-looking man in a grey suit and holding a clipboard escorted me through many unfamiliar corridors to to a room I had never been in before, and told me to wait until the proprietor of the room returned. No, not even. He said absolutely nothing in between his greeting of "Miss Hathaway, you are to come with me." and his parting "Wait here." I understand I'm not the most bubbly, cheerful person in the world, but at least I was _polite._ Well, most of the time.

The room was, like most others, monochromatic and unadorned. However, it was by far the most clean and simple office I had come across in my time as a reaper: the walls were a light grey, the desk made of a silver metal with two charcoal grey chair, one behind the desk and the other in front, accompanying it, two filing cabinets in the corner, both ash grey. The floor was tiled, and, of course, grey. On the desk were only a few fountain pens and an ink well. On the wall opposite the door there hung a simple circular clock. I watched for nearly twenty minutes as it's hands crept closer and closer to six. Finally, the door swung open.

I jumped up and found myself, for the second time within a period of twenty-four hours, blushing and staring at the necktie of William Spears. He was carrying a large stack of paperwork, which he dropped onto his desk before sitting down, resting his chin on his folded hands, and...smiling?

"Please sit, Miss Hathaway." Stunned, I complied. "While I'm upset that this incident has delayed me, and will therefore cause me to be unable to go home on time, I find it most satisfying that someone finally put a foot down to those slothful loafers." He adjusted his glasses and turned stoic again. "However, your lashing out against a co-worker, no matter how well-deserved, and, more importantly, your damaging of communal property, needs to be reprimanded. It's protocol."

I stared, wide-eyed, at the stack of papers sitting on the desk. "All this…? I know my behavior was completely inappropriate, but I can't do all of that paperwork now…" I was so exhausted all I felt like doing was crawling up somewhere and sleeping for a few decades.

"No, no. That's not for you. It's unrelated paperwork I have to go through, if and when I get the time to do so. As you have an almost flawless record, all they want from you is a written apology. Actually, I believe the wall was fixed even before they made you wait in here for so long. My apologies for that. You must be tired, after working all day and most of yesterday. You're free to go." He gestured for me to leave, already starting on the pile of papers.

I stood up and started toward the door, then stopped. "Actually, if you'd like, I could help you with that."

Mr Spears looked up with a bemused expression. "Why would you offer to do so? It was my impression that you wanted to go home get a real night's sleep. You look as though you may collapse at any moment."

"This is the second time I've inconvenienced you in the past day without you lashing out in return. You must be tired too. If I assist you, then we'll both be able to leave some time tonight." I sat back down without waiting for a response.

He stared at me for several moments. I fought the urge to look away. "Alright. The second half needs only to be filed. The filing cabinet is alphabetical, by last name, naturally." He paused, as though he wanted to say something else, but stopped. "Thank you." He added, returning the contents of one of the documents.

I pulled my gloves off, and dove into the papers as well. We worked in complete silence for an hour, but I was too buried within my thoughts to notice the time go by. I only looked up to find the clock had somehow jumped forward to ten after seven once my stack of papers had been placed into their appropriate files. "That's that." I said, standing up and stretching. I turned around to find Mr Spears had long finished whatever he had been doing, and had been watching me work.

He quickly looked away, took off his glasses, and pretended that he had been focusing on removing a stubborn smudge from one of the lenses. After several seconds, he put them back on and cleared his throat. "Thank you for your help, Miss Hathaway." He paused. "I was wondering if, to thank you, I could perhaps convince you to join me for supper? Of course it's understandable if you would prefer to be alone, I just thought you might be hungry, and since you've been so inconvenienced tonight...it would serve as a proper apology."

That surprised me. Did he really just say that? His inquisitive, and even nervous, look suggested he had, in fact, just asked what I thought he did, and was urgently awaiting a response. "Umm, certainly. That would be really nice, thank you." I smiled and pulled my gloves back on. He jumped up and pulled the door open for me, giving a small smile, before escorting me outside, and walking me home.


	4. Chapter 4

I must say, I had never considered what my coworkers did with their limited free time—I really didn't care. I've definitely never pondered about the personal life of Mr Spears. After all, I barely knew him, even after working as a reaper for six years. Sure, there had been moments, but…. He was a higher reaper, as well. I had no _right_ to ponder his life. I followed him in silence until we reached a small, old-looking brick building on the outskirts of London.

The structure was two stories tall and made of red and tan bricks, with eight glass windows, three on either side of the door, the other two belonging to upstairs rooms, all with black shutters, matching the roof, four chimneys, and a short stone walkway leading to a black door. He proceeded up the walkway and fiddled at the door with a key, but I stayed back to analyse the structure. "You live here?"

It was a cozy enough looking home, but it seemed to me to be too large for one person to comfortably occupy. I may have grown up in a mansion, but we always had many guests staying with us for one reason or another. I was never lonely, even though I had an aversion toward most people, and especially hated having to share my home with strangers.

"I do." He unlocked and opened the door, and stood aside, holding it open, waiting for me to come. The last light from the sunset was fading, and his home was dark. Suddenly, I became hesitant. Perhaps it was all those lessons I was given as a girl pertaining to being a lady—one doesn't just visit a strange man's home without an escort—or, more likely, it was my nerves acting up. I shook the feeling and followed him inside. Shutting the door behind me, he instructed me to wait in the entryway while he lit the house.

Mr Spears returned maybe three minutes later, apologising for making me wait, and carrying a five-candle candelabra, which he first used to light the entryway wall candles, then the two lanterns outside of the front door. Returning inside, he gestured for me to follow him down a hallway.

He brought me to a sitting room, to which two of the front windows belonged. The window, however, had been covered by dark red drapes, which matched a set of elegant red velvet furniture; a couch and two chairs, all facing a fireplace in full blaze, which provided, along with a small bronze chandelier, the room's lighting. There were also a couple of mahogany side tables, one next to each armchair, which matched the wooden floor. There were no other decorations. The walls were void of any images or paintings, but were covered with a red, flock-pattern wallpaper. The room was simple, but also had charm.

He set the candelabra down on one of the side tables. "Please, make yourself comfortable. You'll have to excuse me for not being able to entertain you while I prepare supper."

I immediately protested. "You don't have to prepare anything elaborate for me. Actually, I could help co—"

"Nonsense." He cut me off. "Sit down, please. It should be ready in about an hour." He turned and left before I could give any more objections.

He had kept his work clothing, jacket, gloves, and all, on, but I took my jacket off and draped it over the back of the couch. I pulled off my gloves as well, setting them atop the jacket, and felt the seat's fabric. It was luxuriously soft, and silky to the touch. I then sat down, and kicked off my heels. For several minutes I watched the flames dance, then drowsiness, augmented by the warmth of the room, overcame me. I curled up on the small couch and fell instantaneously asleep.

* * *

There were many green eyes watching me. I couldn't see them, but I knew they were watching; I could feel them. They were inhuman eyes. The eyes of a monster? No, I knew those eyes. They were my eyes. Shinigami eyes.

 _What do you want with me?_

The dying; suddenly I was surrounded by them. All of the world's dying called out to me, called for help, for mercy. Those struggling for just one more breath, those with everything to live for, those who wanted nothing more than to be able to continue their lives, tied by their cruel fates to bodies that no longer obeyed their wishes; they all cried for help. I was surrounded by darkness and by the corpses of thousands and their unfulfilled last wishes. I was surrounded by human suffering, by the exasperation of those who desired to continue living, betrayed by their mortality. Their anguished cries pierced me as the darkness overcame the world. I was trapped along with them; lost, drifting.

But then, figures appeared. They took away the crying of the dead, they brought back order. They too called out to me, in a thousand voices, echoing endlessly.

"...Come, girl."

"You don't belong here."

"Child, let go..."

"...Clara..."

"You need...to..."

"...Hathaway?"

"Let us help you..."

"Miss Hathaway...?"

One of the figures reached out, its chartreuse eyes boring into me. It reached toward me, but its finger vanished before it could touch me. Suddenly, the rest of it vanished, as well, until all that remained were its eyes; following me...watching me...ever present...always watching…

* * *

"Miss Hathaway?" I opened my eyes and gasped when I saw that the eyes had followed me to the waking world. "Are you alright?" I stared in disbelief. But these eyes were framed, not hovering in darkness. They were real. It took me several moments to realise that there was a face attached to the eyes, and the face's lips were inquiring something of me.

"Josette?!" The look of concern that crossed the face almost convinced me I was still dreaming; I had never seen Mr Spears worried before.

I sat up, and quickly looked away from him, blushing lightly. I had been staring at him for way too long. "Sorry." I replied, composing myself. "It was just a bad dream. I'm fine." I checked my watch. It was a little past nine.

"Supper is ready. He stood up. "The washroom is two doors down, if you walk in the direction of the entryway." He then walked out of the room, this time without waiting for me. I stretched, stood up, and slid my heels back on. I left my gloves and jacket where they were; I was wearing one of my favourite blouses, a silk, button-down white one, with full sleeves and a ruffled-and-bowed collar. I fervourously tried to smooth out the wrinkles that had developed from me sleeping in the poor thing, but I quickly gave up, and followed Mr Spears from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

The house may not have been incredibly large, but in the dim lighting, it was large enough. Candelabra in hand, I struggled to find the washroom, but I eventually did. As it turns out, it was only two doors down, walking in the direction of the entryway. Who would've thought? Within, there was a table with a basin filled with warm water, some soap, and a mirror on top of it, some towels, a guest chamber pot, and even a bathing tub. The room, just like the living room and office, was simple, with no decor, meant only for practicality. I splashed some water on my face, then combed my hair out with my fingers until it was reasonably flat. I relieved myself, washed my hands, then studied myself in the mirror.

I looked absolutely terrible. I wished I had a bit of powder with me to cover up the dark circles under my eyes. My lipstick had long worn off as well, and I wasn't carrying any with me. The thought of having to appear in front of _anybody_ , especially of position, in my sleep-deprived, irritable state made me feel shameful; but the thought of looking like this in front of _Mr Spears_ mortified me.

 _What am I thinking? He's only feeding me because he feels bad for me. He doesn't give a damn about how I appear._

I found my way to the dining area much easier, following the scent of some sort of stew that was to be my first genuine meal in a couple of days. The dining room was also very simple, but pretty: the room was about as large as the sitting room, with a large window overlooking the back of the property, covered this time with floor-length lace curtains; the floor was also made of a dark wood and was uncovered; the table and two chairs were made of mahogany, with deep blue coloured, velvet seat cushions; there was a china cabinet against the wall that separated the dining room from the kitchen, which was filled with various plates, bowls, glasses, and tea sets; the walls were bare, and blue; there was another bronze chandelier, which cast the room in soft golden light, as a comfortable warmth poured in from the kitchen; the table was covered in a lace tablecloth, and was already set. It wasn't too long; only one-by-two metres. However, two places were set at the same end of it to make conversation easier.

The food was already at the table, too. " _Blanquette de Veau_ with steamed green beans on the side." my host named the dish, as he helped me into the chair at the table's end. He then proceeded to pour each of us a glass of wine. I noted he had removed his work gloves, although he kept the rest of his suit on, even in the warm kitchen.

"Thank you. This is all really nice, but it seems a bit extravagant." I remarked uncomfortably, shifting in my seat.

"We both deserve a good meal. Especially you. You shouldn't push yourself so hard so much: best case scenario, you may end up making errors that will take an abundance of extra time and energy to rectify; worst is you end up injured or dead. Such an accident would be completely tragic, as we're so short on staff, and we'd be really hard-pressed to find a replacement who is as efficient as you." I stared at my food, not knowing what to make of that comment, but I could feel his gaze on me.

We ate in silence for several minutes. It was amazing; the veal was really tender, and the dish really hearty. I didn't notice much regarding the flavour—I'm no herb expert, anyway—as I was too hungry to appreciate the meal as anything more than hot food. The wine was amazing as well, and paired beautifully with the dish.

"I was unaware that you enjoyed cooking." I broke the silence.

"Yes, it has always been a passion. Preparing food for someone else is a nice change, however. I usually eat alone." He half-smiled and pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose.

"I usually do, too. Although, I would never be able to feed myself this well. Your home is lovely, too. You're quite tasteful."

"Hardly. This place was already furnished when I bought it." he retorted, almost instantly.

That took me aback. "Oh. How...convenient." I stared at my bowl, which was covered in a pretty, light blue, floral pattern, stirring the stew with a perfectly-polished silver spoon, and blushing earnestly. I busied myself with taking small spoonfuls, dragging out the time it took to eat, just to have something to do, other than trying to partake in awkward conversation.

Unfortunately, I ran out of food. I dabbed with my serviette at the corners of my mouth, and, looking up, I realised Mr Spears had again been watching me. "Hmm?" I inquired.

He looked away and replied with a soft "Nothing, sorry." He got up, and started to clear the dishes.

I stood up, too. "I could help with those. I really don't want to be an inconvenience…."

He glanced at me—sternly, at first, which made me worry he was becoming frustrated with my inability to comply with his desire to cater to me—then his expression melted into a benevolent one. "You're far from an inconvenience. Besides, I wouldn't want you spilling anything on your nice blouse." He turned and vanished into the kitchen. I plopped back into my seat and waited for him to return.

When he did, he was carrying a tray with two glass dessert cups filled with what looked like cream and different types of berries; blueberries, strawberries, and my favourite, blackberries. "A berry trifle for dessert." He set the dish and a clean spoon before me. I waited until he had seated himself to take a bite. It was delectable; the cake was moist, and the berries gave the dish just the right sweetness.

"So how is it you're still working in soul retrieval?" He asked after several minutes. I looked up. "You've done more in your few years as a grim reaper than quite a few within the Retrieval Division have managed to in their entire careers. Have you really never been offered a more preferable position?"

Although the arbitrary question took me off guard, I was by far more shocked that Mr Spears was now actually _trying_ to have a conversation. "No, not really." I answered, taking a bite of cake.

"You don't strike me as being particularly content with your job." he replied, quizzically.

I contemplated my answer for several seconds before responding. "I am. The long, tiring hours—and some of the messes pushed upon me to clean up—are obviously not desirable aspects of my duties, but there have always been, and there always will be, souls to be collected, and competent reapers are needed to do just that. Isn't the collection of human souls the core of our very existence? Isn't it our duty to the world to make sure the pattern of life and death continues smoothly, now and forever?"

My question was met by silence. "I've never considered it that way—as anything but a job forced upon me." he replied, after several moments.

"I don't see any point to regretting the life I've found myself in." I paused. "Besides, did we not all choose this?"

He was silent again, but now for much too long. He finally responded with a hushed "No, no we did not. None of us chose _this_." He stood up, and once again began clearing the dishes, obviously agitated.

I jumped up. "Oh, that was so insensitive of me to say! I'm so sorry, I wasn't even thinking!"

"It's fine. I'm taking needless offense to things I shouldn't be so sensitive to." he coolly retorted, without even looking at me, before disappearing back into the kitchen.

 _What have I done? I've ruined dinner with my carelessness._ I practically ran back to the sitting room to gather my things. Upon noticing how low the flames had become, I glanced at my watch. It was approaching ten-thirty. Full of shame, I resolved to apologise to and thank my host again before running home—and possibly staying there for a very, very long time.

But my host ended up finding me, and stopping me by the entryway. "Miss Hathaway? You don't have to leave. You've done absolutely nothing wrong, I'm the one at fault for overreacting."

I avoided his gaze. "It's late. I should be going anyways. Thank you for everything, Mr Spears. The meal was incredible." I turned to go.

"Josette, wait." He grabbed my hand to stop me, then promptly dropped it. "I could escort you home. You shouldn't walk anywhere so late by yourself."

Still avoiding his gaze—I was staring at the floor, attempting to hide how red I had become—I responded with a tart "While I appreciate your concern, I've been more than enough trouble tonight. I assure you; any drunkards who attempt to take advantage of me will be most repentant by the time I finish with them." I kept walking.

"I don't doubt that, but—"

"Goodnight, Mr Spears." I closed my eyes, took a breath, and opened them again to find my path blocked.

My host had stepped around me to prohibit me from leaving. His right hand pressing into the front door, holding it shut, he lifted his left, which trembled ever so slightly, and gingerly grasped my chin, gently forcing me to look up at him, as he bent down and pressed his lips to mine.

He kissed me gently, cautiously, and only for half a moment, before breaking away to analyse my reaction. My heart pounded fiercely as our eyes locked and I was pulled into the cold, but alluring, eyes of a man who held so much sorrow, sorrow that trailed like a shadow from the past into the present and future.

 _Those are my eyes. That pain is a reflection of my own._

"William..."


	6. Chapter 6

The warm spring morning was the perfect day for a celebration of love. The sun was out, the wildflowers were in full bloom, and a cool breeze provided comfort to the female guests dressed in their most formal gowns.

The ceremony was to occur in a small church in the British countryside, and only a few guests were in attendance—after all, neither groom nor bride had any family to speak of. The inside of the church was decorated with scarlet roses-rose petals covered the aisle, and archways by the door and alter had roses woven into them-their elegant scent not quite strong enough to be overwhelming.

Everyone turned to the entryway as I entered the room, wanting to catch a glimpse of the bride. I was wearing a simple, yet elegant, cream coloured floor-length cotton gown, with a narrow hoop skirt, long sleeves and an off-shoulder neckline. Pairs of ladies whispered together, smiling, awestruck and jealous at the beauty of the wedding gown.

I started up the aisle, admiring how the light coming in through the stained glass windows painted the interior of the church in so many dazzling colours, and accentuated the green sparkle in the groom's handsome eyes. The wedding was beautiful and perfect—until it happened, of course. Out of nowhere, the groom collapsed. I was left by myself in the back of the church as people rushed to assist him—a few guests were chuckling, assuming his nerves had gotten the better of him, and were already cracking teasing jokes, as they would often do, but I knew better. I sank into one of the pews at the rear of the room, and watched the events that unfolded.

I sat there, still as a statue, for the fifteen minutes it took for the guests to realise the man was not breathing, to try to help him, and to finally have the decency to escort the ladies out of the room. The room was close to vacant before anyone even noticed me, sitting by myself, completely detached from the trauma of the death of the groom.

A brunette man was the first to approach me, looking almost as imperturbable as I was. "Miss, a fine lady such as yourself shouldn't have to witness this. Please, come outside with me." I didn't move, and only spared him a quick glance. "Err, miss…?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that. I have business to attend to in here." I stood up, and the man jumped back, startled, when he saw I held a scythe.

"What the hell is that for? Who are you?" he exclaimed. Ignoring the question, I brushed past him and started up the aisle again. "My God, what are you doing?!" He lunged for my death scythe, grabbed its handle, and tried to wrestle it from me. I shook him off with ease—human beings are so weak, it's laughable. The few other gentlemen who were present likewise attempted, and failed, to restrain me. They could only scream in protest while I sunk my blade into the corpse's chest, and in disbelief when I vanished after doing so.

* * *

When I returned to headquarters that evening, I was ambushed almost simultaneously by two people. The first was Ella Foster—a really kind, but hopelessly foolhardy, grim reaper who was the closest thing to a friend I had. We were in the same class, and had completed the final exam of collecting a soul together. Well, I did most of the work, but still.

I identified her by the dirty blonde streak that was her ponytail as she sprinted toward me. She was screaming unintelligibly, about what sounded to be a mash of apologies and warnings. One of those women who rejects traditional female attire, she was wearing a white blouse, a lilac-coloured vest, and matching lilac trousers which licentiously showed off her curves. She claimed they were "more practical to work in." More like, they were "more practical to flirt with the guys in." Not that I had anything against that, but I did have something against her frequent inability to get much work done as a result.

Through her " _I'm so sorry! I did something really, really bad and you have to run right now, I'll explain later."_ came the screaming of my second attacker.

"You whore! You promiscuous, man-stealing wench!" I turned, and out of the corner of my eye, saw a streak of red and silver flying at me. I managed to duck a millisecond before I would have lost my head to Grell Sutcliff's death scythe. Having come into contact with air, he lost his balance and fell over with a " _Huh?!_ "

Pinning him down with my scythe, I stepped on his wrist, forcing him to let go of the chainsaw, which I kicked away. I then grabbed him by the necktie and pinned him against the wall. "Ow, ow, ow, I'm sorry! Not the face!" he whimpered, attempting to squirm free.

I turned to Ella. " _What did you do?"_ I hissed.

"I'm so sorry!" she squeaked. She defensively held her hands up, and, with a genuinely terrified expression, started to back away from me. "I was flirting with Ronald at lunch, and, oh this is all his fault, and he asked about you—something about an incident with Carlisle—and he wanted to know how you were doing, and I may have let slip he should tell Carlisle to back off because you and Mr Spears are a thing but I was talking too loudly, and Grell overheard us and has been searching for and trying to kill you ever since! I'm so sorry!"

I turned a deep shade of scarlet and let go of Grell, who, intelligently, tried to escape. I swung my scythe around, so that the blade almost contacted his throat, and used it to pull him back to us. "William and I are _not '_ a thing.' There's nothing going on between us. Nothing." I quickly contradicted.

"Really?" she cooed. "Then since when have you two been on a first-name basis?" her frightened expression melted into a taunting smirk. I felt myself become warmer.

"Yes, when _did_ any of this happen?! When did my William start acting _soo_ unfaithfully?" I shot a nasty glance at Grell to shut him up.

"I'm going to let you go. If you breathe a word of _any_ of this to _anyone_ , I _will_ hurt you." He nodded hastily, and I dropped my scythe. He grabbed his own and fled swiftly.

I watched him go, then looked back at Ella. "You may thank me later, you know. There's no way you two could ever manage to pull yourselves into anything without outside interference." she said in an attempt to vindicate herself.

"That's not a good enough reason to be spreading rumors about my personal life—"

"Sure it is. The sexual tension between the two of you is so palpable one could cut it with a knife." I somehow managed to turn even warmer.

"Oh, no. we are _not_ having this conversation. He's my superior in every way—we kissed _once_ , and it was a big mistake. No, telling _you_ about it was a mistake. Had I just kept my mouth shut, that incident would be _long_ dead in both of our minds—completely disregarded, because it is _never_ going to happen again."

She suddenly became the most sincere I could ever remember her being. "What if he has feelings for you? Are you going to just turn him away?" She placed a hand on my shoulder, in a ludicrous attempt to calm me.

I stared at the ground, still as red as a beet. "Of course he has no feelings for me—he's not exactly a 'people person'—and I have none for him." I felt tears coming, which unsettled me—I hadn't cried in a very long time. I felt like a child, becoming so worked up over nothing. "It would be completely inappropriate, not to mention unconducive to a healthy working environment." I shrugged her off and walked away before she could attempt to convince me otherwise.


	7. Chapter 7

I ran up to one of the basins in the ladies' powder room and splashed cold water on my face, causing my makeup to run. I analysed myself in the mirror. My hair was frizzy, my makeup half washed off, my face still extremely red. I looked—and felt—so pathetic.

"What is wrong with me? Oh, God, what is wrong with me?" I repeated over and over again, until I ended up in a hysterical fit of sorts, sobbing on the floor. I knew, oh goodness, did I know—I forced myself to admit it, that I cared for Mr Spears—what I felt for him was _wrong_. He _was_ my superior. He was so much older than me, as well—and, most importantly, he's so reserved, so unemotional, as he's right to be. There's no room for emotion in a grim reaper's life. We exist solely to complete our one duty; to collect human souls, to keep the world functioning. He knows that. I know that.

I _knew_ that.

I cried pathetically for a good fifteen minutes, pouring all of my confusion and frustration into my tears, before I could compose myself enough to get up, and to try to repaint my face into something vaguely presentable. I couldn't stop my hand from shaking, though, and eventually gave up, resolving to just go the rest of the day makeupless.

After another minute or so of calming my breathing, I turned and left the washroom. I wasn't scheduled to collect any more souls that afternoon, so I started toward General Affairs, to get rid of my scythe so I could go home, and perhaps take a nice, long, rejuvenating bath. I kept my head down, allowing my hair to shield my identity. As a result, I didn't take note of any of the reapers I passed, until one of them stopped, turned around, and grabbed my wrist, pulling me aside.

"You've been avoiding me." My heart began fluttering, and I fought the urge to throw up. _No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Please leave me be._

I didn't even look up. "I have my reasons." I could feel my face had reddened again.

"I know. Of course you do. I'd like to talk to you, though." Mr Spears shifted uncomfortably. "In private."

I looked up at him and faltered for a moment, losing some of my anger upon seeing the repentant look in his eyes. I found my momentum again quickly enough. "So you can let your barriers fall—so, for just a moment, you can show the warm, sensitive, beautiful man you are on the inside, and make me fall for you—then build those barriers back up, and leave my feelings hurt and confused? No, thank you. I think enough has been said." I wanted to turn and run, but he still held firm to my wrist.

"I'd like to explain myself, if you'd allow." I don't know why I agreed to let him, but I nodded, following as he wordlessly led me back to his office.

I sat down as soon as we arrived, not waiting for an invitation this time. Mr Spears, however, did not. Instead, he leaned against the closed doorway, with his eyes shut, considering what he was going to say, I suppose. Forced myself to swallow thoughts of how attractive he was in the casual pose, I looked away, my cheeks flushed pink. He opened his mouth as if to begin, then shut it, walked over to his desk, and sat down. I didn't know what to feel as he stared at me from across the cold expanse of air that hovered between us.

Suffocating in the quietude, I broke it: "This really can't be important enough to interrupt your beloved work for. I do believe it is your job to yell at us lesser employees for allowing personal matters to get in the way of our responsibilities to the Grim Reaper Dispatch. I already know what you are going to say, and I understand. Truly, I—"

"No, you don't." The expression he wore left me speechless—he rarely showed glimpses of emotion, but nothing of this magnitude; he looked so weighed down by sorrow that I wanted to look away, to apologise, to give him privacy, to do _something_ , but his gaze held me in place. "I used to have a wife." He paused, analysing my reaction.

I was frozen. After several moments, I managed to breathe a "Of course you did. But why would you bring your past life up like this..?"

"She was murdered." He continued.

I suppose everyone has a few skeletons in their cupboards. "That's...that's really awful. I'm so sorry. That must have been so hard…" I trailed off. He looked to be suppressing tears.

"It was. I didn't know how to go on living after...so I opted to stop living." His voice wavered a bit at the end. I didn't know how to respond. He was watching me, though, waiting for my reaction.

"Why would you tell me this?" I inquired, softly, feeling as though I was intruding in on something acutely confidential.

"I told you that I wanted to explain myself, did I not?" Just like that, the emotion was gone, replaced with the cushion of practicality he used to protect himself from his own grief.

I stood up, battling my own emotions. "Well, I'm sorry for your loss." I turned to the door. Only when my hand reached the doorknob did he continue.

"That's why this is so difficult. I loved her." I paused, and heard the scraping of his chair against the floor as he stood up. My heart began to pound ferociously as he walked up behind me, and, cautiously, testing his own reaction as well as mine, placed his hands on my waist and turned me around. He leaned his face toward mine. "But there's something...I care about you, Josette. I don't know how I'll ever be able to forgive myself for being so selfish—even though I don't think I'll ever be able to let go of her, I still think I could love you."

Then, without any hesitation, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulled him to me, and pressed our lips together. He moved his hands up my back, pulling me tightly to him, as his soft, sensual lips explored mine. I let my hands move down his neck and come to rest on his chest, sighing as he trailed kisses down my neck.

At this he broke away and, unhurriedly, straightening up. He didn't let go of me, however; he moved his hands back to my waist and rested them there, a smile barely perceivable on his lips. "You'll really have to watch out for Grell now."

"You _know_ about that?" My stomach sank.

He dropped his hands and fiddled with his glasses, his features shaping into an unamused expression. "Yes. I did hear a small rumour that I'm besotted with you." I stood there, mortified; he was so close to me that I couldn't move or look away. Good _God_ , that gossiping, good-for-nothing, flirtatious loblolly was going to _pay_. "I'm not much of a fan of gossip; it wastes time and creates unnecessary conflict. Therefore, allow me to put this rumour to rest: it's true." His smile creeped back, and I found myself smiling radiantly in return. "Would you care to do something together as soon as I finish here?"

Elation like I've never known before rushed over me. _This is really happening. I don't understand how, but it's happening._

"Yes. I have to take care of something first, though." I brazenly stole another kiss from him before sliding from the room; I had a friend to hunt down, although I was undecided as to whether I wanted to strangle or hug her.


	8. Chapter 8

"I swear, there is nothing _to_ be found. I've questioned almost every reaper with testicles, and I haven't found _anything._ Not even a name. It doesn't help that I have to be super discreet about it, too." She took a mouthful of coffee. I don't know how she can drink the stuff—it's revolting. I just took another sip of my tea—which was black, with two cubes of sugar—and stared at the café table between us, mulling over this information.

"What about Grell?" I asked, looking up. "It shouldn't be too difficult to get him to start babbling about his favourite obsession."

Ella's expression turned uncertain. "I don't know...he's not the type of person who would respond well to my methodology..."

I choked down a sarcastic comment, and instead responded with "You could try _asking_ him."

"So could you. Actually, this is a pretty crazy idea, but have you tried asking _Mr Spears?_ " She grinned hugely.

I inhaled a bit of liquid out of shock at her intrepidness, and started coughing violently. Her grin faded, replaced by a look of concern. "Josette...?!"

"I'm—" _cough cough cough_ "—fine." I hacked a few more times before getting out a "No! Of course not! I don't want to seem nosy and insecure."

Her normal amused look returned. "But you _are_ insecure. Which is why you asked me to be nosy on your behalf!" I ignored her, and took another sip of tea.

"It's too difficult a topic for him anyway. I don't want to bring it back up, not when we're doing so well. He did just started acknowledging me as his lover at work." I was really shocked the other day when he approached me in the middle of my shift, and, in front of a _lot_ of people—including Carlisle, who was bothering me again, refusing to believe any rumour that I had been stolen from him—shifted folder and scythe to one hand, so with the other he could cup my chin, and kiss me a bit too passionately for our having an audience. Needless to say, no one has tried flirting with me since.

"That's true. But his keeping secrets like this isn't beneficial to maintaining a healthy relationship, either."

"He has his reasons...I'm only a bit curious." She seemed to approved of my snooping, which of course meant my behavior was much more unseemly than I had convinced myself it was. "I guess the only thing left to do then is to go through all of the old records again. I could have missed something." I finished my drink, checked my watch, and stood up. "I've a train to catch. A whole family is to be taken by a fire near Bristol. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright." She glanced at her to-die list, then jumped up too. "Dammit! I missed another collection! Management'll have my head! See you!"

* * *

I waited until long after the day shift ended and most reapers had trickled home to sneak into the library. It was, seeing how it contained copies of the memories of every human being to have ever lived in England, records which would one day determine the fate of their souls, ridiculously underprotected. But because of my charm—hah, _not_ likely—or, more realistically, because of my good reputation, the few reapers I did come across allowed me to snoop as I pleased, no questions asked.

Seventeen...seventies, eighties, nineties? I had checked every "Spears" from the past half a century, at least twice. Yet, I couldn't find a single person who fit the few criteria I was looking for; female, married, and murdered young. So I checked again.

I was sitting on the floor, pouring over the cinematic record of a man who could have been William's grandfather when I thought I heard someone coming. It was close to midnight—I had unintentionally dozed off a couple of times, but kept working, refusing to give up until I found _anything_ informative—and there was no way at this hour that I could avoid being questioned for my presence in the library. I jumped up, shut the record, carefully but hastily placed it back on its shelf, and blew out the now-stub of a candle I had used to read by.

Footsteps echoed nearby. I dared not move a muscle, not even to breathe. I wasn't really doing anything wrong, not by the standards of grim reaper law. I knew however, as much as I didn't want to admit to it, that I was obsessing over finding this woman because I was envious of how important she was to William. My mind knew she was long dead and posed absolutely no threat to our relationship, but my heart was plagued by uncertainty. I've never before been much of one to succumb to jealousy: I therefore didn't want anyone to find me like this, to find my judgement skewed by something as pathetic as human emotion.

So I prayed to whatever goodness there was in the universe that I wouldn't be discovered.

The universe must have been feeling benevolent: the footsteps stopped several metres away, too far for me to identify the body to whom they belonged, even by the dim light of the lamp the figure carried, before they turned and faded into the distance. I stood up, happy to avoid a potentially humiliating explanation session. Perhaps this was a sign that I ought cease my obsessing and go to bed. I bent over to retrieve the lantern, and waited half a minute to be certain the intruder had gone, before leaving as well.

A cool breeze greeted me when I stepped outside. It was a cloudy, moonless night, but I knew my way well enough that I could find my way home without much light. I thought sentimentally of the nights when I used to have to fear walking alone at night. Yet, I threw my mortality away. I had nothing left to fear in the world save my own high-strung, obsessive tendencies. And really messy soul clean-up assignments. And being reprimanded for beating on the fools who caused those really messy soul clean-up assignments.

Still, I jumped, then stopped dead in my tracks, when I heard a voice softly call to me through the blackness. "You've been wasting your time." I reddened. Of course he knows.

I quickly ran through a mental list of ways I could respond. Pretending I hadn't heard anything and running home was at the top of said list. I had already allowed myself to act so senselessly for so long, however, so I turned to confront him.

"You've been following me." I feigned annoyance, trying to stay composed. Guilt clawed at me, though. "I'm sorry." I breathed, breaking down after several seconds of silence. "This makes me look really bad, I know. Your life isn't my business, especially regarding something as sensitive as your past marriage. I had absolutely no right, I just, oh, I'm so sorry..." I trailed off, working vehemently to interpret his expression.

Surprisingly, he didn't seem to be upset. William stood a metre and a half away, looking down at me, his features shaped into their typical emotionless configuration. "You needn't apologise. Although, if you had just asked me about her, you would have saved yourself a lot of trouble." He dropped his gaze and stepped around me, making me fear for a moment that he would brush past me and continue into the darkness, leaving the conversation at that. He stopped, however, and instead offered his arm to me. I hesitantly took it.

We walked for a while before he expanded upon his statement. "Well? What do you want to know?"

I was more than a little dubious that he would be willing to offer up such personal information so readily. "Nothing. It really isn't any of my business." I replied, instantly, keeping my eyes on the stone path in front of me.

"I would appreciate you not lying to me." he coolly retorted, just as quickly.

I looked up at him, but his gaze was focused on where we were walking. "What was her name?"

"Clara. Miss Clara Alvey of Essex, daughter to Doctor Richard Alvey of Essex and Madame Adèle Bellerose de Bourgogne." He recited this completely matter-of-factly. "You won't be able to locate her record. I've tried. She died in England and her father was of English lineage. We should have it. But we don't." He tensed, but continued walking. "I figured that perhaps for whatever reason it might have been transferred to the French branch, and I asked about it...but perhaps because it is such a personal matter to me, the director brushed off my request for information. Or, perhaps he's covering something up..." Suddenly coming to a halt, he faced and looked down at me, releasing my arm. "I shouldn't have said that. It's not my place to question the actions of those higher than I."

I shook my head. "There's a time for obedience, but there's also a time for freedom of thought, and of voice. If you feel something is wrong, you have every right to question it."

He didn't respond: he just stared down at me, his expression unreadable, only broken from his thoughts when it began lightly sprinkling. "I should get you home." I latched onto him without waiting for permission this time. Our pace increased as it started to rain, and as he'd withdrawn back into his own thoughts, I feared I wouldn't get the opportunity to question him further. I didn't have to worry, though, for another few minutes later he spoke again. "She wasn't just murdered. She was raped, beaten, then eventually killed. Right in front of me, too, and I was powerless to stop it." I had absolutely no idea what to say to this revelation.

"I'm...I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "It doesn't really matter anymore. She's dead, and it happened a long time ago."

"Not long enough ago." I immediately countered. "It's obvious the pain is still fresh to you."

"It is. However, I made up my mind decades ago to not allow myself to dwell on the past. That would make eternity more of a hell than it already is."

I nodded, slowly, uncertainly. "Is that...is that why you decided to go after me? As a distraction?"

Looking at me again, he replied with "I'm not fond of lying unless it proves to be absolutely necessary; it wastes time and destroys trust. Therefore, I won't ever lie to you, Josette. Yes, that was my original intention. Even so, I mulled over the idea for _years_ before finally acting upon my desires—mostly because they evolved into more than just a chaste wish for a diversion. After all, you were just a new recruit when you captured my attention; to be seen making a move on you...I knew, for the sake of both our reputations, that it would be better to keep our relationship strictly professional. Not to mention you're so intimidatingly lovely...I didn't have the courage to make my feelings known." Even in the dark, I could detect a bit of a flush to his cheeks. "I never meant to fall in love with you. But I did, and I'm not certain what to do about it."

"Don't be so afraid." I suggested, after taking a moment to digest all he had said. "Don't be so afraid of letting yourself show a bit of weakness. Don't be afraid of letting yourself _feel."_

He certainly didn't, for at that moment he stopped dead in his tracks, turned, and embraced me, kissing me with much more passion than he ever previously had—to the point where it was quite a bit too obscene for public. Thankfully we were standing in a deserted street in the middle of a rainstorm at one in the morning. A crack of thunder made us break apart. At that point, we ran, and I found myself laughing, for although I was absolutely _soaked,_ so was William, and the sight of him—so discomposed, yet so gleeful in spite of it, so emotional, so _human_ —was most amusing. After another small handful of minutes we had arrived at his house, and I realised we'd deviated from the path to my flat long ago. "Allow me to give you a room for the night and some dry clothing." He commanded as he led me up his front steps. Since the frigid rainwater and fatigue were both beginning to take their toll on me, I agreed, gratefully, and followed him inside. He shrugged out of his jacket then took mine, and hung them up in the small entryway closet. "Would you like anything to eat before bed? Perhaps some tea?"

I nodded. "That would be nice, thank you." Before preparing it, he led me all the way down the hall, past the sitting room, to the stairwell, and led me to the second floor. Immediately in front of us upon reaching it was a second washroom, and right past that was a guest bedroom. Procuring some matches, my host lit several candles, then proceeded to apologise for not being prepared for company.

"The bed sheets are clean, though, and I'll build you a fire. I'm afraid I don't have water heated for you to bathe with, but I can bring you a pitcher of cold water." I continually assured him he needn't worry himself, and that he was already being too kind to me. After all, it was already extremely late, and he likely had to work tomorrow.

He disappeared downstairs, returning fifteen minutes later with a tray of tea, a towel, a nightgown, and the water. I was surprised when I unfolded the gown to find that it was my size, and that it was a woman's garment. "Where did you—" I began to ask, then snapped my mouth shut, already knowing the answer to my question, and blushing in embarrassment at my big mouth.

"Lay your dress out by the fire to dry overnight, and don't be hesitant to wake me if you need anything. Goodnight." He started to close the door to my room, but then stopped. "Is something the matter?"

I must have been giving him a look that matched my thoughts. "Oh, no!" My blush darkened. "It's nothing. Just a stray thought."

He re-opened the door a bit, and leaned against the frame. "And what might that thought have been?" I couldn't answer that. At least, I really didn't want to; he saw this hesitation, and, evidently intrigued, prodded me further. "Whatever it is, it's all right. You can tell me anything."

I stared at his dress shoes while I answered. "I'm just surprised that you're not inviting me to stay in _your_ bed." I shook my head, trying to clear myself of such a lewd thought. "I'm sorry. That was a highly inappropriate thing to say aloud. I beg your pardon."

To my horror, he stepped back into my room and approached me, his customary inscrutable countenance covering his intents. "I couldn't ask that of you. I'm flattered you feel so comfortable about our relationship, though." He bent down and kissed my cheek, and, with a "Sleep well," left me to myself.


	9. Chapter 9

Walking up the familiar path and knocking on the door, I nervously fingered the note I had discovered in my mail this afternoon.

I'm so sorry I have not being able to spend much time with you as of late. Come by around seven this evening and I'll have supper prepared for us. -William

By "as of late" he must have meant the past week or so. We hadn't seen each other at all save a couple pass-bys in the hall, although each time one or both of us was hurrying to some place or another. Not that I really noticed—or minded—the time alone: I was an incredibly busy reaper myself, and by the end of the day, I was more than fine with not having to deal with any other living creatures—reaper or human or otherwise.

The door swung open, and the proprietor of the house stood before me, dressed in a white top and black trousers—different than what he had worn to work, and a cooking apron. His lips formed a small smile upon seeing me. "Josette. You're early. Come in, please." He stepped aside to allowed me to pass, then shut the door behind me. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to wait for just a while longer while I finish making supper." He looked torn between annoyance that I had come sooner—although only _fifteen minutes_ sooner—than he expected and happiness at my being there.

"That's fine. Could I be of any assistance…?" I already knew what his answer would be, though.

"No, no, I've got it. Go relax, please." He excused himself and promptly returned to the kitchen. So, I made my way to the sitting room. Candles lit up the room, but the fireplace was dark; it was too warm outside to warrant lighting a fire. I found I was rather anxious about finally having some alone time with William, and I couldn't sit still for very long. I paced for a couple minutes, then made my way back to the hallway.

Far to my right, past the entryway, noises emanated from the kitchen, so I crept out of the room and started down the hall to my left. Out of sheer curiosity, I carefully opened each door I came to and poked my head into the rooms. One was an office, which contained a desk with many neat stacks of paper on it and several filled bookshelves lining one wall. The other looked to be another bedroom, but it was being used for storage. At the end of the hallway a stairway carried my to the second floor. The upstairs hallway was lit by a single wall candelabra at its far end. I paused on the top step. I couldn't quite place it, but the corridor looked almost...familiar...for some reason. I'd been upstairs once before, but such a feeling hadn't struck me then. Something about the flooring, or maybe the wallpaper, the colour of which I knew to be a maroon but could not discern in the low lighting. Maybe I had more recollection of the details of my previous visit than I'd realised at the time.

I took a hesitant step, cautious to avoid creaking floorboards, which would give away my investigating. Across from the stairwell was the washroom, which looked as seldomly used as ever. The basin didn't wasn't even filled with water. After, there were the two other bedrooms, both the size of the one downstairs. The farthest of the two was completely empty. I reached the end of the hallway and turned back, hesitating at the one remaining door, which I knew would lead to William's bedroom—the one room of the house, save perhaps for the attic and cellar, I had yet to see.

 _I'll just take a peak._ I pushed the door open, freezing when the hinges squeaked. The hallway was dead silent, though, and no noise came from downstairs, save the faint clamoring of my lover in the kitchen. I slid inside, and looked around. The right wall gave way to another doorway, which upon further inspection led to another bathroom; the largest of the three it may have been, but just as simply decorated as the one downstairs. Beside the bed, which was covered in a grey quilt, the pillows in white covers, the room's only furnishings were a dresser and a mirror, and a wooden side table on the near side of the bed. The floor was bare, as were the walls, minus the mirror.

The only decorative item I had noticed in the entire house was a picture in a frame on the side table. I walked up to it and, without picking it up, studied it. Once I realised what it was an image of, I gasped, and blushed a little. It was a beautiful sketch of a couple kissing, obviously just married, based on their apparel, and obviously a younger William and his bride, who must have been the elusive Clara. My heart sunk a little at finally seeing an image of her: she was flawlessly beautiful. A few curly blonde strands escaped her bun and cascaded elegantly down her back. She wore a silver cross on a chain around her slender neck, and her rounded, but sculpted, face and delicate features wore great bliss from her husband's touch.

My shame at intruding upon this very personal memory was momentarily overpowered by great envy. No wonder he loved her enough to choose suicide over a life without her. She was physically perfect, and he hadn't a bad thing to say about her, or so I've gathered from the very little he actually _had_ told me of his dead wife. How could he possibly have feelings for someone like me? I'm not beautiful or kind—goodness knows I'm not a nice person—or even close to being perfect in any way.

Maybe he doesn't.

I sank onto his bed, my eyes stinging, my face hot with anger and sadness and confusion. In the midst of feeling sorry for myself, my eyes fell onto a small wooden box that was tucked behind the picture. Curiosity overtook me again, and I reached for it. Within rested a ring—the kind made from the handle of an old spoon. It didn't take very long for the realisation to hit that it was the same silver band which accented Clara's finger in the image. I don't know why, but as I stared at it in wonder, the urge to put it on my own hand crossed my mind. I would have, too, as inappropriate as it would have been to do so, had the noise of a voice being cleared not snapped me back to my good senses. The open box—with the ring inside—nearly fell to the ground when I jumped up, scrambling to smooth my skirt and the bed's quilt, before I realised I wouldn't be able to cover up what I had been doing.

My face burned in shame as William walked up to me and grabbed the ring from my hand. "I believe that's mine." He gazed at me in silence for a very long time, his face unreadable.

"I—I should go." I stuttered, making my way to the door.

I half expected him to stop me again, but to my surprise—and heartbreak—he uttered "Yes. I think that would be best." He didn't even turn to watch me leave, and I was forced to escort myself out of the house, tears pouring down my face before I could escape into the night's numbing blackness.


End file.
